I don’t know how Simon knew I was ill–shall we say, although I had an idea of how he knew, I couldn’t prove anything–but flowers arrived almost first thing on Monday morning. It’s one of the nicest ways of starting a week I can think of.

I sent him a text message of thanks and he replied that he would ring later. I was still clad in my nightie, lounging laconically, except when rushing off to the loo. The antibiotics gave me the squits–which seeing as I wasn’t eating too much, meant I had to drink plenty. Tom had stayed home until he was happy I wouldn’t die before tea time.

My throat was sore, my neck hurt, I felt like dehydrated camel poo, and I think I was beginning to resemble it as well. My face looked like I was on steroids or had Cushing’s syndrome. I couldn’t settle to anything, I was tired but had slept long enough, I couldn’t concentrate to read or watch telly, I didn’t feel like fiddling with the computer, in the end I listened to Radio 4 and Woman’s Hour.

Amazingly, they were talking to someone who’d changed sex, only the other way round. I couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would want to be a man, but he probably had equal reasons for thinking the exact opposite.

I’ve heard it said, that transsexuals probably have clearer ideas of what constitutes a gender or sexual stereotype than most other groups. I don’t think I agreed with it, neither did the interviewee on the radio. If you want to see that sort of thing, then gay drag queens probably fit the bill, with their caricature of exaggerated femininity.

I wasn’t very feminine, I enjoyed an element of sport–okay, cycling and I was considering racing if I could sort it out after I got legal status. I decided I would contact the Dept of Constitutional Affairs/Gender Recognition Panel, and gen up on the paper work for when I applied to change my status.

As I had nothing better to do, and Tom had popped out to the university, I sat and thought about myself and my degree of femininity. It wasn’t that much, well, okay, some of it was. I enjoyed clothes and dressing myself up to look nice for Simon, I sometimes used makeup, rarely painted my nails, did get my hair done and wore perfume.

I enjoyed being with Simon and playing the supporting role, unless we were cycling. I enjoyed tinkering with bikes, even the difficult stuff like building wheels, yet hated even checking the oil on a car. I could sew and cook in a limited sense, enough to make it as an average housewife but not an outstanding one. I loved flowers but not necessarily arranging them. I didn’t particularly like reading chick-lit books, although I often enjoyed those sort of films. I didn’t like women’s magazines–they’re a rip off. Now, New Scientist, or Nature were brilliant, and of course, Cycling Weekly on whose website I had squandered many an hour.

I nodded off listening to the afternoon play, only awakening when Tom came back. “How do you feel?”

“I’ll live–for a few more minutes, anyway.”

“So you won’t want this homemade ice cream, Pippa brought in for you.”

“Homemade? She has a machine?”

“She thought you might be able to swallow it.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll swallow it okay.”

“It got a bit soft, so I’ll shove in the freezer for an hour. How about some tea?” The thought of Tom making tea, had me suddenly generate a remission, and I jumped off the sofa, got all dizzy and fell over knocking the vase of flowers all over the dog.

Tom couldn’t move for laughing, until Kiki shook herself and sprayed water all over his book cases and television. I staggered to my feet and seated myself on a chair until my head cleared.

Like a trooper, Tom cleared up the mess. Thankfully, the vase and most of the flowers survived the accident, and Kiki didn’t shrink either. We had newspapers spread over the top of the damp patch trying to soak up the water. I did wonder if I should have sat there pointing my hair dryer at the carpet, or at least offered to do so.

I had some ice cream for my tea, it was delicious and I resolved to buy an ice cream maker when I felt a bit better. I would phone Pippa tomorrow and croak my thanks to her, my voice was now a sort of squeaky whisper and my head ached abysmally.

I went to bed and tried to read. I couldn’t read, even the paper Tom had got me. As for the crossword–don’t be silly, I could barely read the clues let alone understand them. I lay in the bed feeling really sorry for myself when Simon phoned.

“Hi, Babes, how ya feeling?”

“Awful,” I croaked.

“What? I couldn’t hear that.” In the end we had to abandon the call. He could speak to me, but I couldn’t croak loudly enough for him to hear me. He talked to me for about ten minutes then rang off. I cried myself to sleep, only to have Tom come in with a cold drink of orange juice.

The week went on and I did start to gain some strength and felt a little better. My neck was going down and my face didn’t look as swollen. I tired very easily and my doctor was not at all sure about when I could go back to work. In some ways I was glad, I fell asleep in the waiting room. That sort of did it, I was take another week off and gently exercise and be prepared for another one after that. I was neither pleased nor surprised. Tom had advised the university and they seemed happy to wait for my return. I wasn’t sure about it and if anything felt a little anxious about the whole matter.

I communicated this to Tom. “What are you trying to say, Cathy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t want to come back?”

“I don’t know, Tom, I don’t know what I want.”

“You realise how hard I had to work to get your job back?” he looked a bit annoyed or hurt.

“Of course I do, and I’m very grateful for it. It’s just I feel very anxious about going back.”

“That’s probably because you’re suffering the after effects of your mumps, what do they call it?–post viral fatigue and depression.”

“I suppose it could be, I do feel exhausted, but I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.”

“Why shouldn’t it be the right thing?”

“I dunno, I just don’t know anything any more.” I started to cry and he came and hugged me.

“Have a bit longer off, take your time.”

“Won’t they start to get fractious if I’m not back before the start of term?”

“I’ll deal with that.”

“Thank you,” I sobbed and hugged him back. He really did feel like a father substitute, probably more than my own dad had been, and I so wanted to please him, but I felt so weak and unsure of anything. I didn’t even know if I could run the captive breeding programme again. I had never felt so useless in all my life, except when I had tried to kill myself.

While part of me considered it, I decided I didn’t have the energy to follow it through. I also thought of all those I’d leave behind who would feel hurt by my demise. I couldn’t do it to them, so that meant I’d have to get better and back to my normal self, if I could.

With Stella still not home, I felt the women were letting the side down, yet we’d also taken the brunt of things, so were doing our best in difficult circumstances. What’s the opening line from that country and western song–’Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman‘